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"The Grey" Albiorix

Estes241

The Talking Pizza
Retired Staff
IMAG0334.jpg Name: Albiorix (Not to be called this, he does not really give out his name and so few know it)
Nickname/Alias:"Grey", Corpse-eater, etc. He cares little for names, what you call him is of no concern
Gender: Male
Race: Dark Elf
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 180
Hair: White, streaks of silver, Long and in a ponytail in the back. (Not noticeable if the hood is up)
Eyes: Red iris
Skin: Black as night
Identifying Marks: His black skin, and grey tattoos.
Appearance:
Wears a patched grey robe, made of many skins, that is very worn. If not this, then a more elegant grey robe with red trim. Although not visible, he has intricate GRAY tattoos that come up to his cheeks.
Strengths:
These first two are under both strength, and weakness. He feels nothing physically, and emotionally. He will not be hindered by pain in a battle, so attacks had better be damaging to body functions. Many fights are won through pain, one giving into it, and yielding, or faltering. Without emotion, he cannot have his mind clouded by anger, love, etc. By doing so, he is able to think clearly in dire situations.

He is quick, not overly muscular, and prefers to fight with a rapier.

His armor is 'fused' (for lack of a better term) to his flesh. He may not take it off, and so, it is on constantly. It is hidden underneath his cloak, to cover the main weakness that the armor has, explained below. He is able to use the armor almost like a shield, bending his arms at certain angles to deflect blows.

He has a lot of knowledge in the anatomy of the creatures of Altera. He often states that "The body is filled with weakness," simply because it is. He is well aware of the points to strike on the body that greatly damage it, or put it temporarily out of use.
Weaknesses and fears:
Due to the lack of feeling, he is unaware that he may be coming to harm. His hand could be on fire, and he may not notice, which would ruin the hand greatly.
His lack of emotion makes him 'cold'. Few people like him, if any, and so few may come to his aid if called upon.
His armor, although quite useful, has one main flaw. Anywhere where flexibility is require, it does not exist. The joints are unprotected, which is why he wears the grey cloak to hide these spots.
His fighting style with the Rapier isn't very effective against heavily armored opponents. He no longer has arms, though he has made 'adjustments' because of this.



Religion and cults:
It could be said that he serves the Grey Lady, the Goddess of death, but that is not entirely true. He views Death to be something of a God in its own self, and that the Alteran Gods are not of importance. Death is a sort of enlightenment... and the attainment of all knowledge. To him, the sisterhood is an abomination, and insult to death.
Profession:
You could call him a healer, although he does not often use his knowledge of anatomy to heal the wounded. He usually uses it to kill the victim instead. However, if approached, and asked to heal someone, he will do it to the best of his ability, but there is always a price. The price is not in gold, and it may seem severe to many. Story: He sat there watching the scenes in front of him. The pub was not the cleanest of places, the floor boards were stained from all the ale that was spilled on them each night, crumbs of food littered the floor and tables, and cobwebs hung in each corner of the room. Many of the people inside sat close to the fire, warming themselves from what he assumed to be a cold winter's night. He sat at a distance from most, a small table located in one of the corners. The town where the pub was located was quite small, located deep in the forest, on a lonely road. A mere thirty souls resided in the town, and few visitors ever passed by.
He could see everything that took place from this spot, studying everything that was happening in the room. The men arguing over small matters that seemed of great importance to themselves, the bartender handing out drinks to men who could hardly stand already. Most were blind to the fact that he even sat in the corner, watching them all in their foolishness. All except the bartender's daughter, who seemed to make her way to his table every time he came. At one time he attempted to get rid of her, however, this proved to be futile, so he let her stay as she asked her questions.
She was a foolish girl, often asking the same question again, and he always gave the same answer. "Please sir, what is your name? will you not tell me?" she asked, as she slid onto the adjacent seat once more. She had brought him a drink, she often did, in an attempt to get a different answer for once. He replied, "Who I am... is irrelevant, it is what people are that matters." She frowned, and continued to try having a conversation with the dark elf. He would give his illusive answers as the night continued, until all had gone except for him. He would then stand and exit, not returning for a few days, then one day, he would be sitting at the same table, and watch the events once more.
There came a night, not unlike the others in anyway, where he sat in the same place as always, watching. It was another cold night, judging by how all the men wore thick coats as they stood near the fire, drinking their ale. "Their last ale," he thought to himself. The wind was howling outside as small snowflakes whiled about, some sneaking under the door, and melting on the floor. As the men argued over their petty issues, and they always did, the doors flew open, and a gust of wind raced through the room, causing the candles to flicker. Nine grey cloaked men stepped through the door, as one of the drunken fools shouted, "Oi, close that door ye fools, its cold out the---" But his words were cut off as the first of the grey cloaked men reached him.
The men behind him stared at the tip of the sword that was sticking out of the man's back in complete shock. The sword slid out of the man, and he fell in a heap on the floor, blood staining the wood on the floor. The grey cloaked man who held the sword stated clearly, "Yield or Die." in a voice that showed no other option. The other eight grey cloaks unsheathed their blades in unison, ready for any who resisted, however, none did. He watched as they gathered up all in the pub, except for himself, and they forced them outside into the supposedly cold night. When the pub was empty, he then stood, and walked outside, and looked at the entire village, now lined up in the ever increasing snow. Some stood shivering, others crying, and some with blank faces, unaware as to what was happening. The grey cloaks stood watching over them, swords drawn, if any got the urge to run. The grey cloak who had killed the man approached him, nodding his head. "We have all thirty.. Twenty-nine, not counting the dead man, what shall we do?"
He looked over at the villagers, those he had been examining for a month, then said, "None of them are worthy. It is only their resources we require. We must not be known, so kill them all," he answered. The man simply nodded once more, walked over to the group, and ordered them into nine lines, a row for each of the grey cloaks. The people were still unaware, and to confused to organize themselves. The grey cloaks then bound one to the next, so they could not run. The grey, for that is what they called him, then walked over, and watched as the grey cloaks began cutting down the villagers, those he had been watching for several weeks. The drunken fools died screaming, the bartender begged for mercy for his daughter, who was next in the line. The grey cloak of that line cut him down as he begged, but before he could kill the girl the grey grabbed his arm before he could strike. The man moved aside. The Grey looked down into the eyes of the girl who had attempted to show him kindness. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, drawing out an ancient stone rapier. A different sort of chill crept about the area, it was a chill that stole one's warmth, a chill one would feel upon death. He placed the blade to her neck, and she cried out "WHO ARE YOU?" tears rolling down her face. He replied "As I have said...It is not who I am that matters...but what I am." and then he cut her neck, and the last of the villagers died.

And here is an attempt at drawing his face.
 
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Warwolf

Alteran Cryptid and Renowned Hat-wearer
Staff member
Admin
In-Game Tech Staff
Legend
WarWolf_1
WarWolf_1
Legend
:eek: Talk about creepy.
 

Estes241

The Talking Pizza
Retired Staff
Haha, apologies... People nick named him the Grey... and so I adapted to it and changed it into...something terrible...
 

mistaahh

Lord of Altera
It's nothing, I love character development through rp..
Limadan, when I joined this server, actually good, friendly and quite sane.
 

Estes241

The Talking Pizza
Retired Staff
Alright, time to make his back story a bit more public! Those of you have read it... this isn't the same thing! I'm attempting to 'flesh' out the characters a bit more, and changed the settings in it a bit. Here we go, installment number 1. ______________________________________________________________________________________________
Last time I wrote his backstory, it was kind of quickly written, so here I will attempt to put a little more into it, perhaps so that the characters do not seem as shallow. If there is a foreign word involved, I shall put an ‘*’ next to it. The translation can be found at the end of the story. They shall written in order of appearance…. Though there may not be many anyways. And if it isn’t understood, Italics represent thought.

“I don’t wanna go, we’ve-“ Dulindwen’s complaint was cut short as her mother tied her dress tightly, “- gone to so many already. There all the same, the old men fight and w-“ and she is silenced again by the tightening. “Stop it! I can hardly breathe…” In attempt to prove it she stubbornly began holding her breath, her greyish blue face began to get a purple hue to it. She twisted, crossing her arms and looked at her mother, giving her a look that could only mean, see?

Rimdris sighed, looking into her daughter’s eyes, waiting for the child to be unable to hold her breath any longer. Dulin’s face slowly grew to a deeper shade of purple, and then she burst, letting out a blast of hot air in Rimdris’ face. She quickly began sucking in air to regain her breath, then complained allowed, “I don’t wanna go! Its… its… boring!” and she re-crossed her arms, and put on the best pouting face she could manage.

“You have to go,” Rimdris stated, as she began to arrange Dulin’s hair, “we need to be there to support your father, remember?” She turned Dulin around, and began braiding the long dark strands of hair.

“But we don’t even do anything!” She began fidgeting, pulling on the dress’ grey sleeves. “Why does papa need us?”

Rimdris pulled Dulin’s arms to her sides, stopping her from messing up the sleeves. “Because your fa-“ and she was silenced by a voice at the door.

“Because your presence gives me comfort, dalharil.*” Dulin spun around and ran over to the man in the doorway, clasping his hands. Her father was one of the fairest of her kind. His skin was black as night, and his hair seemed almost whiter than snow. He was neither too tall or too short, and his voice could soothe almost all creatures of the world. But the most noticeable fact about him was the color of his eyes, which were a vibrant red. Dulin never understood why so many people gave papa odd looks when they saw his eyes, some even seemed frightened, but when she looked into them all she could find in their depths was love. “But papa,” Dulin held his hands tightly,” we’ve been to so many… can’t I stay home this time?”

He let go of her arms and swiftly hoisted her up an held her close. “How about we make a deal, dalharil… you come with your mother and I to the gathering, and I will tell you a story tonight.”

Dulin smiled, papa’s stories are even better than mother’s, “What kinda story?” she had to know.

Laerornor looked up, as if thinking deeply on the subject, “Hmmmm, how about…. An evil man who lives in a castle far far away… who snatches up little dalharil who don’t support their fathers?” (*cough* Foreshadow *cough*) and he began to spin her about, before setting her down and tussling her neat hair, much to Rimdris’ obvious disaproval. “How does that sound?”

“Hmm… can the evil man be a nasty earthspawn?” She asked excitedly, strands of hair now covering much of her face.”

He laughed out loud, and tussled her hair again, “Whatever you wish, dalharil.” He was suddenly taken by surprise as Rimdris quickly pushed him out of the room, and slammed the door in his face.

“We’ll be late now! I have to fix her hair all over… it’s even worse than before!” She yelled through the door to him. There was a small chuckle from the other side, then footsteps fading away. She turned back to Dulin and began the organizing the mess once more, grumbling during the process. Finishing, she backed up and gave her daughter one last look, making sure everything was in place. “Alright… now I need to get ready as well, don’t go getting dirty…. And stay away from your father, he will just mess with your hair again!”

Rimdris ushered her daughter out of the room, and shut the door, leaving Dulin alone in the hall. Stupid hair… stupid dress…. She looked down at the dress, grey, with an elegant simplicity to it. The corrupted elves often wore grey clothing to the gatherings, and so she had to carry on with the tradition… stupid tradition. I’m hungy. She turned right and ran off down the long stone hall to the kitchens. She stopped quietly at the door, and opened it slowly, sniffing the aromas that greeted her. Several servants moved about, most of them cleaning, though some were busy preparing food.

She caught sight of the portly human woman and skipped over to her, knowing she had all the sweets. The large woman’s cheeks jiggled with laughter as she saw Dulin approaching, “And what is it that ye want, c’rintri*?” and she pulled a small marsh plum tart off a platter, handing it down to Dulin’s already reaching hands. “One of these I’m betting, there ye are… now ye best scoot out o’ here, before your ma sees that.”

With a muffled thanks, Dulin stepped out of the kitchen. She crammed the rest of the tart into her mouth, crumbs flying this way and that, and chewed quite happily. Unsure of what to do next, Dulin took off towards the door, hoping to find father. She rounded the bend quickly and flew straight into the person walking down the hall, knocking her to the ground. She looked up at the face of her uncle.

“And where are you going in such a hurry, sweet one…?” Nulion always called her that. He was different from father and uncle Edwethor, unlike them, his face was much paler, appearing to be a light grey in color, much like mother. The only thing he shared with his brothers was the red eyes, but even those seemed different. He grabbed Dulin by the arms and lifted her to her feet, and stepped back. “Well look it that, all dressed up… I don’t think anyone could look as pretty in grey as you-“ he paused, looking past her shoulder. “Or maybe there is just one…”

Dulin turned to see her mother coming down the hall, dressed in the same grey dress, only the size being different. Rimdris smiled at them both “Greetings Nulion, I was not aware that you would be joining us this evening. Dulin… what is that on your chest?” She bent down and swiped a few leftover crumbs from the front of Dulin’s grey dress. “I thought I told you to not get dirty! Nulion, you ought to know not to give children sweets before a gathering!” She scolded.

“I-I.. did-“ he stammered, before she cut him off.

“First Laerornor messing her hair, now you giving her sweets… next Edwethor is going to challenge her to a bog hunt*… you three are so difficult.” Rimdris guided Dulin passed the still stammering Nulion, towards the exit.

Dulin looked about the large hall which had the two large doors into their home. Around the hall hung flags of their family, the Vrol’sry, their colors cyan and silver. The room was almost made entirely of stone, and had several hallways branching from it. They were one of the great families of the village, but compared to many of the other families, this home was still small. Father said it was because they only recently rose to their nobility. Many of the other families had existed for thousands of years, even back into the times of serving the Great Queen, like the black and red Fral’Drasi.

Laerornor stood near the giant doors, waiting for them. “You’re late…” he said.

Rimdris shot him a look, “Indeed… I cannot imagine why…” They walked up to him, and eventually Edwethor made an appearance, Nulion following quietly behind. Edwethor was almost a mirror image of Laerornor, except for the scar down his face, and his rigid demeanor. Edwethor was just as intelligent as his brother, but he lacked the social capabilities that his brother had, and because of this, most avoided his company. Most are probably scared of the scar… Dulin thought to herself.

The family exchanged brief greetings, and exited the home, into the foggy mists of the ancient marsh where they lived.


*Dalharil – Daughter (Page 1)

*C’intri – Noble, or as a slave might address a master

*Bog hunt- Pretty self-explanatory… pretty much a ‘treasure hunt’ through the bogs, which are the common homes of Corrupted elves.
 
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